The Budapest Protocol (36 page)

Cassandra Orczy sat on a chair by his bed, watching the television news with the sound turned off. He struggled to sit up but she gently pushed him back down against the sheets.

“You have to rest for several days, the doctor said. You’re suffering from mild concussion, bruising, grazes and they took a lot of glass out of your skin. But you’ll live.”

He lay back on the hard pillow. “Where is she?”

“You should be proud of yourself. You and ten other foreign journalists have been declared
persona non grata
in Hungary. You are all to be arrested and then expelled as a punishment for ‘damaging the reputation of the government’. But you aren’t going anywhere for a while.”

Alex gripped the bedstead. The metal felt cold against his hands. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Is she dead?”

“No, she’s not dead. She’s fine,” Cassandra said, her voice exasperated. “She was late, and by the time she left for Parliament Square the bomb had already gone off.”

“Thank God,” he said, sagging back as the relief coursed through him. “When can I see her?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, dear Alex, you’re dead,” she said, smiling sweetly, as she leaned forward to smooth down his sheets.

“I don’t feel very dead.”

“That’s what it says in the newspapers, so it must be true. You were killed in the bombing today.” She handed him an eight page emergency edition of
Magyar Tribün
, published that evening. A short news story on page three said that his remains had been identified.

“Four paragraphs. Is that all? And no picture,” said Alex, indignantly.

Cassandra pulled the chair closer to his bed, her blue-green eyes unblinking. “This isn’t a game, Alex. You want to infiltrate the Directorate. So your best alibi is that you are dead. Here’s the proof,” she said, tapping the newspaper. “It’s up to you. You’re in a safe house but you are not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you want. But you won’t get any help from us getting into the Savoy. In fact, we just might tell them that you’re coming.”

She looked older, he thought. She was pale, her hair had lost its lustre and there were new lines on her face. He said: “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me. This operation has started now, Alex. Some very serious people are involved, not just in Budapest. People whose time you don’t waste. I had to persuade them that you could do this. So make your mind up. Are you in or out?”

He stared at the pattern of cracks in the ceiling. He saw a spider, perhaps an octopus. Her hands pulled him closer as they moved together, their legs entwined, her breasts sliding across his chest, their skin slippery with sweat, her tongue against his. Natasha thought he was dead. She was mourning him and he was here, alive. A wave of guilt burst through him. He raised his fingers to his nose and inhaled. Hospital soap. The antiseptic smell suddenly overwhelmed him. He saw the bodies outside Parliament, in the field in Bosnia, the broken limbs, the bloody clothes, the sightless eyes. He was injured. He was lucky to be alive. His heart pounded and his breathing turned ragged.

Cassandra looked at him, alarmed. “You’ve gone white. I’ll get the doctor. You’re in shock.”

He shook his head and forced himself to breathe slowly and calmly. “It’s OK, I’ll be fine. Really. It’s just a reaction. Just give me a little time.” She handed him a box of tissues and left the room. He cried silently for several minutes, the tears draining the torment from his system, and lay back, exhausted. She returned with tea and a tray of sandwiches.

Alex accepted a cup. It was hot, sweet and very reviving. “Thanks. I’m in. But at least tell me where she is.”

“Safe in the countryside with her mother. We have someone watching them.”

He moved on the bed, trying to get comfortable. “How did I get here?”

“Isabelle Balassy brought you. She found you on the grass, put you in her car and talked her way through the checkpoints. She said her car was sovereign British territory. She also had a pistol in her glove compartment, which may have helped. I told you to lay still,” she said, moving the pillows to support him as he sat up. She turned up the television volume. “Satellite stations aren’t working at the moment. ‘Technical difficulties’, supposedly. Internet providers are down as well. Hungarian state television is broadcasting continuous news. The Immigration Liberation Army has claimed responsibility. But no sign yet of Hasan Al-Ajnabi’s usual video tape.”

Aniko Kovacs wore a black jacket, and black blouse with a red, white and green neck scarf. The Hungarian, Croatian, Romanian and Slovak flags hung in front of her desk. She read the news in a low, sombre tone. “The death toll in today’s terrorist attack has now risen to forty-eight, with another ninety-seven injured, many critically, including Croatian President Dragomir Zorvajk. Responsibility has been claimed by the Immigration Liberation Army.” The screen showed Hunkalffy standing on the wrecked Parliament entrance looking grim and determined, Frank Sanzlermann at his side. Dusan Hrkna and Cornelius Malinanescu stood at a respectful distance, hands behind their backs. Smoke still drifted from Parliament and the charred remains of cars.

Kovacs continued: “Prime Minister Hunkalffy has declared a temporary state of emergency to ensure that Sunday’s Presidential election takes place in conditions of peace and security. The following restrictions are in force with immediate effect. All public gatherings of more than four people are banned; a curfew is in force between midnight and 6.00am. A period of ‘campaign silence’ is also imposed to prevent the further inflammation of national passions.” A piece of paper was slid across her desk. She read: “We have just learnt all citizens are required to take part in Sunday’s election. For reasons of security citizens will be required to show their completed ballot papers to a Gendarmerie officer, who will then stamp it, and their identity cards, before the paper is placed in a secure box.”

The camera cut to Sanzlermann standing outside Parliament. “We stand foursquare behind our friend and ally Attila Hunkalffy, at this time of national tragedy. We extend our deepest sympathies to Hungary at this time of national mourning. This terrorist atrocity will be avenged.” Malinanescu strutted forward and opened his mouth to speak, but was replaced by a shot of Edith Leclerc, standing outside the Hotel Bristol.

A scrum of reporters surrounded her, shouting questions. “I condemn utterly this cowardly attack,” she declared. “But I cannot continue to campaign under these conditions. I do not withdraw my candidacy, but I have no option but to return to Paris. I will not legitimise these restrictions on basic freedoms by remaining here. As terrible as this bomb attack was, I do not believe there is any need for a state of emergency, curfew or so-called ‘campaign silence’. Democracy should be strong enough...” she said as the screen went blank.

Aniko Kovacs suddenly appeared, looking from left to right. She touched her earpiece. “Dear viewers, our apologies for our technical difficulties. We now go live to the arrest of the ILA leader in Budapest.”

The screen showed a terrified Mihaly Lataki being dragged into a van by two Gendarmes.

* * *

Klindern looked at Hunkalffy and Sanzlermann with distaste. “Reinhard, track number three please,” he said, gesturing at the DVD player.

Daintner pressed the remote control. A young woman with long, wavy, light brown hair walked into the headquarters of the State Security Service on Falk Miksa Street. Daintner said: “Here is your Eva. If that is her real name, which I doubt. Current whereabouts unknown.”

Sanzlermann sat with his head in his hands.

“First the flight attendant. Now this,” said Klindern, his voice cold. “As far as our recordings show, you told her something about Sunday’s meeting. But there is too much background music. So why don’t you tell me?”

Sanzlermann muttered. “Nothing, I promise, nothing.”

“Tell me what you said, or you will have cause to regret it.”

“That there will be an important dinner here on Sunday night, with VIPs from all over the world, to watch the election results. Half the staff know. It’s hardly secret.”

“I told him she was trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. He can’t stop following his prick. All the way to the State Security Service,” said Hunkalffy, triggering a look of hate from Sanzlermann.

Klindern turned to Hunkalffy, his eyes glittering, his sun-tan now glowing with anger. “And what are you following,
Prime Minister
?”

Hunkalffy looked startled. Sanzlermann sat up straighter and smiled warily.

“This hotel episode is probably manageable. Even if the video footage was somehow leaked we could blame the stress of the campaign, hold a tearful press conference, have Dagmar pledge her love. It might even boost our support in the end. Mea culpa, human frailty, a man under terrible pressure, etc,” said Klindern. “But this, this
display
... Reinhard, track four please.”

The screen showed Hunkalffy sitting naked on a leather armchair in the Prime Minister’s office, in front of a coffee table. Empty champagne bottles were strewn across the floor and liquid slopped over the table edge. Hunkalffy leaned forward and loudly sniffed up a line of cocaine off an antique mirror, before sliding it across the table to two naked women, one blonde, the other brunette. He handed the blonde a 500 euro note. She rolled the banknote into a thin tube and snorted up the drug, while the brunette watched hungrily. Her eyes wide with excitement, the blonde walked over and sat on Hunkalffy’s lap. He opened a fresh bottle of champagne and tipped it over her breasts. She writhed with pleasure. The brunette quickly snorted up the last line of cocaine and walked over to Hunkalffy. He guided her head to the blonde’s chest.

Klindern chopped his hand through the air. “Thank you, Reinhard. That’s enough.”

Daintner ejected the DVD and handed it to Klindern. Hunkalffy sat rigid, his face beetroot, his hands gripping the side of the chair. Daintner’s mobile rang and he turned away to take the call.

“Do you think we aren’t watching you?” demanded Klindern. “That we don’t know what you do in your office?
In your office
. What a fool you are. Cocaine and whores.”

Daintner hung up, walked over to Klindern and whispered in his ear.

“
Damn
!” Klindern exclaimed, thumping the coffee tray so hard the liquid sloshed over the table. “Zorvajk has just died. You pair of idiots.”

Sanzlermann scratched furiously at his raw red hand. Hunkalffy stared sullenly at Klindern.

“Sadly, we still need you both. For now. But any more blunders,” Klindern said, holding the DVD, “and this disc will finish you both. Your marriages, careers, everything. Imagine how many hits this would get on an internet video-sharing site.”

Hunkalffy stood up, his face dark with fury. “Then do it.”

“What?” demanded Klindern, amazed. “What did you say?”

Hunkalffy walked across the room to Klindern. “I said, do it. Post it all on the internet. And then what? One, I will deny it, and say it is a smear, manufactured by Leclerc’s supporters using computer tricks. And you will have to support me,” he shouted, his boiling anger barely controlled. “Two, Sanzlermann’s campaign will certainly be damaged. But where will that leave you and your friends, Herr Klindern? Weakened. Very weakened. Voting is just a few days away. There is no time to find a replacement candidate or move the election to another country. We are your only options. My private life is my own affair. My lovers are my business. If you choose to make them public, then be prepared to take the consequences.”

Klindern laughed. “Attila, Attila, that fiery
Magyar
spirit will definitely get you into trouble one of these days. There were those who said you would have made a better candidate than poor Frank here. I’m beginning to think they were right. Sit down, Prime Minister, have some coffee,” he said, his voice conciliatory.

Hunkalffy shook his head and returned to his chair. Klindern stopped laughing: “Nonetheless, we do have a credibility problem. Leclerc has returned to Paris. You have declared a state of emergency. You have closed down satellite television and internet providers. There are already mutterings in Brussels that the election should be postponed and rethought. That would be a disaster. The Directorate specifically chose Hungary as you assured us everything was under control. That does not appear to be the case.”

Hunkalffy asked calmly: “What do you want me to do?”

“It is vital that Sanzlermann takes power in an election that is seen to be legitimate, not through a campaign of state-sponsored intimidation,” said Klindern, his voice hardening. “Rescind the state of emergency and the new laws, carry on with the plan, but ensure that this appears to be a contested election, not an exercise in rubber-stamping.”

* * *

Alex sat up in bed, examining the land registry deeds for a large lakeside villa on the outskirts of Balatonfured, once a favourite resort of the Austro-Hungarian aristocracy. It was his first morning in the safe house and Cassandra had just given him the papers. They were newly issued and listed him as the owner. The house, she explained, was built by Miklos’ grandfather, Alajos, at the end of the nineteenth century. Alex knew about the family’s factories on Csepel Island, and the mansion on Andrassy Avenue. He half remembered hearing about a villa at Lake Balaton, and this must be it. Alex – and Miklos while he was alive – had long given up all hope of meaningful compensation for the lost Farkas economic empire, let alone repossession.

After the collapse of communism, Hungary had not restituted individual properties but had issued compensation coupons. There were too many vested interests to do otherwise. Hundreds of thousands of Jewish homes, shops, factories and businesses had been taken over, often by former friends and neighbours, many later appropriated by the state. It was a rare issue on which all sides of the political spectrum agreed: the leader of the Social Democrats lived in a mansion in the Buda hills whose owner had been killed at Auschwitz. As had the owners of the villas now housing the headquarters of the Liberals, Conservatives, Hunkalffy’s party, and numerous government and business offices.